


The Warmth of Discovery

by Kaytydidd



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: E/R - Freeform, Granjolras, Les Miserables - Freeform, enjolrasxgrantaire - Freeform, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaytydidd/pseuds/Kaytydidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU: Grantaire spends yet another night attempting to drink away his unrequited love for his golden-haired leader and, as usual, unconsciously ends his night upon the steps of his love’s apartment building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic! Let me know what you think!

Grantaire unwillingly draws the bottle, now regrettably empty, from his starving lips, as he wastes away. Same bar, same strangers, just a different night. A part of him knows that the entirety of the night’s occurrences will have drowned away in his sleep by morning, repaving the road upon which the old angst would return, headlights blaring upon his hung-over mind, attacking at his weakest moment. Yet, he allows himself to wallow in the present, his drunken stupor, subconsciously denying the possibility of this future torment.

He hears the faint, distant murmur of the stranger next to him discussing business plans, another bragging about his intended sexual escapade with the beauty in the corner, yet another behind the bar enforcing into Grantaire’s blank face his repetitive drone, “I think you’ve had enough, son.” Despite his proximity to complete unconsciousness, Grantaire becomes abruptly aware of his surroundings, frustrated by the muted lives of so many who simply live, traveling through the everyday, nothing to care for, nothing to pine for, nothing to wallow in booze over; nothing like him.

The bartender shuffles him out the door after the bottle crashed upon the tile, having slipped from Grantaire’s hand in his distraction from his distraction. After a few more muffles of “Get some sleep, kid” and “This kind of life ain’t worth it,” he finds himself in the presence of yet another emptiness outside, albeit a much quieter one.

—-

Grantaire shuffles down the sidewalks one person too wide, across streets no longer overrun by the hustle and bustle of the cold, obliterating everyday. He lifts his hand to his mouth, but tastes nothing, having dropped the bottle that used to be there what could have been hours ago in that restaurant…or was it a bar?

But he doesn’t notice. The action had become so second-nature to him whilst he travelled in these almost daily nightly stupors. In fact, his feet now seem to maneuver of their own accord, taking him nowhere as his eyes betray him from his present surroundings with internal images of wispy, gold locks and unattainable visions of true love’s caresses.

With the dream of such beauty lingering in his mind, the stupor finally overtakes him. The oddly familiar stairs upon which he collapses seem to drape him in warmth and ease as he gradually drifts into his imaginary possibility of a golden future.

—-

Enjolras welcomes the gentle, warm breeze that suddenly sneaks through his open window, occurring despite the slight chill the autumn night holds. The open window had remained a constant entity in his life for so long, rain or snow, bringing heat or shivers, that he no longer even thought of closing it. Just pure habit. He sighs. The warmth had distracted him from his deep thoughts and the studying had suddenly become tedious, his mind awakened from his concentration and feeling the exhaustion of multiple sleepless nights. Stealing a quick glance towards the window that had supplied the actually pleasant, yet brief, distraction, Enjolras pushes his reading glasses further up his nose and forces an effort to return to his studies.

“Enjolras…Enjolras…”

The slight whisper swims along the warm breeze that continues through the open window, caressing Enjolras’ face as he bent over his books. The slight thud and silence that followed the sweet, yet pain-filled whispers brings the student hurriedly to his feet and to the window.

Enjolras knows precisely where to look, now familiar with his painter friend’s habits of lewd, nightly drunkenness that quite often brought him to the doorstep of Enjolras’ apartment building. Sure enough, a glance towards the stairs brought the image of Grantaire, same man, same drunkenness, different night, crumpled across the first few steps, right hand poised as if wrapped around a bottle, yet clutching only emptiness.

Enjolras hastily sashays around the discarded clothes cast carelessly about the floor and the books flooding the flat’s entirety, sprinting down the outer stairs and through the front entryway.

Reaching the front stairs, he regretfully greets the sight of his close friend in such a state, yet ironically peaceful and smiling slightly in his sleep, as if his escape into fantastical slumber was bringing him the greatest of contentment. Heaving a sigh through his nose, Enjolras scoops his drunken friend’s warm body into his arms, which had grown increasingly strong from routines such as this, and, with grace and care, carries him inside.

—-

Warmth embraces them when they arrive inside Enjolras’ flat, Enjolras barely aware of his legs beginning to buckle under the fatigue of carrying his friend up two flights of stairs, his mind set only upon the care needed by this seemingly peaceful man he clutched in his arms. Hobbling towards his own bed, he is slightly astonished by the deepness of Grantaire’s slumber as he hardly budges throughout. He laid Grantaire gently upon the bed and blankets, scrambled yet untouched for days.

The gentle sleeper inhales deeply and makes himself at home in Enjolras’ bed, in which he had slept off many a reckless night, tightly gripping the familiar-smelling sheets as if in desperation for their reality.

Enjolras stumbles to the end of the bed. He suddenly feels exhausted again, but uses his final energies to pick a discarded blanket up off the floor. He moves to drape it over Grantaire, but upon feeling the immense warmth already emanating from his body, discards it at the end of the bed, yet within his friend’s reach should it be needed. His exhaustion now begins to overwhelm him.

When he reaches the fairly uncomfortable futon, in his living room but allowing him to remain near to Grantaire given the close quarters of his apartment, he instantly collapses. He lies there, content in the warmth of his apartment and the knowledge of the safety of his friend as he snores deeply close by.

But, despite his exhaustion, the now much desired sleep does not come easily to Enjolras. He finds himself, as he often did on such nights, dwelling upon his concern for Grantaire, questioning his acts of placing himself in such drunken states. He constantly fears for his health, physically and mentally, and often finding him passed out on his front steps hardly soothed these anxieties. Thank God he always seems to end up here. At least I can know that he is safe. I could only imagine if I didn’t keep my window open each night…

Enjolras’ thoughts ceased for a moment then. Without warning, epiphany overtook him all at once, light flooding the darkness. Every night he kept his window open, rain or snow, heat or shivers…

Just in case he came. Just in case he needed me.

Most of his nights were sleepless, spent dwelling on what he now realized were mindless, pointless matters…

I always worry for him. What if he’s here, needs me, but I’m not awake to hear his call, not awake to nurse him back to himself.

Enjolras then remembers the open window, releasing all of the comforting warm air, treasured on such a cold night. First tucking a stray black curl behind Grantaire’s ear, he closes the window from the chill, protecting his love from the cold outside and keeping the new-found and lovely warmth within.


	2. What Love Has Found Us Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After unconsciously ending up on Enjolras’ doorstep in a drunken heap the night before, Grantaire awakens in Enjolras’ apartment and discovery continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so happy that people liked Warmth of Discovery that I made a part two, I hope you like it! and thanks for the encouragement! -hugs-

Grantaire returned to consciousness with the aid of an insufferable headache. The piercing pains throbbed him awake, his eyes dreading the light, his mind and heart dreading the world.

Grantaire would not allow the disturbance of his retreat to succeed and resolved to keep his eyes closed; he would avoid the blinding light of the real world and all its horrors a moment longer. He remained utterly unconscious of his surroundings or whereabouts, hardly caring about either if his ignorance allowed further escape from the mutual disdain felt between himself and reality. Cursing, he rolled back over to sleep and clutched the same wad of blanket he had held throughout his slumber, wrinkled with the tightness of his sweaty grasp.

But the shifting of his body released the familiar, ambrosial aroma of the bed on which he lay, a gentle mixture of ink, old text, and a bit of heaven. The sweet comfort of the scent lasted only moments before realization invaded his mind. His eyes shot open at the same moment that movement could be heard in the next room. Enjolras, hearing the rustle and sighs of a nearly-awakened Grantaire, was coming to check on him.

Grantaire, much to the disdain of his aching head, leapt from the bed at the sound of Enjolras’ graceful steps. His anxiety to look somewhat presentable was overwhelming as he dwelled upon the shame and embarrassment at his horrible, drunken form he could only assume Enjolras had been exposed to the night before. He hated himself for placing such a burden on the man he loved. But Enjolras’ presence when he emerged in the doorway, though incredibly distracting, reminded Grantaire of his dread of the truth, of unreturned longing and affection, that had forced him into such a state so many times.

The pain in his head, which had now spread to his already aching chest, grew heavier.

_This pain is too much. With my nights spent such as the last, my death is surely approaching, a miserable death by drink and broken soul. It is time to end this._

Grantaire stared at the floor, avoiding the eyes of his love before him. Each man was silenced by the other’s presence. Grantaire reached his arm up to feign scratching his back, an attempt to hide the blush burgeoning across his haggard face. “Enjolras…we…we need to talk…”

Hearing only silence, Grantaire raised his gaze to find Enjolras staring at him as a flower would its precious sun, that stare that Grantaire’s masochistic heart always desired though the knowledge of its absence always tore him to pieces. His features were softer than Grantaire had ever seen them as Enjolras savored the love he could hear in the other’s voice, see in his eyes and in his blossoming blush.

Enjolras swiftly approaches and throws himself against Grantaire.

Grantaire’s initial surprise quickly faded along with all evidence of his cumbersome anxiety and pain. Enjolras tastes Grantaire’s sigh of “Thank God,” against his mouth, feels his hands clutch the back of his sweater, encouraging his determination even further.

Enjolras’ lips transcribe across Grantaire’s an unspoken desperation he for so long knew not he had. They record upon his lips the oath of his fealty to him, loyalty to him, endless devotion to him. They pray to never be without his.

Grantaire reciprocates the conviction he senses in Enjolras’ mouth, initiating a burst of lips dancing with lips, hands grasping flesh, the survival of each man dependent upon the heat of the other. Each thrust of the heavenly entity’s soothing lips against his seems to kiss away a tear that had previously drowned a moment of Grantaire’s life, and he savors every moment of its flawlessness. He thrives upon his new license to see Enjolras, not only with his eyes, but with his hands. His fingers lock tightly into his golden tresses, itching for the permanence of it all. His palm caresses his hairline at the nape of his neck. _This can’t be_ , he thinks when he feels a hand, rough and calloused from long nights of writing, smoothly climb underneath his t-shirt and against his back, pulling him closer and sending sweet shivers up his spine.

Enjolras struggles to whisper, though the magnetism of Grantaire’s enthusiasm forces him back each time he utters a word.

“I’m so…sorry, Grantaire;…all the…time we have lost…” he manages to breathe.

“But so much have we gained, Enjolras,” as Enjolras’ nectar-sweet lips venture to Grantaire’s neck, then to his chest, encouraging its liberation of the summer within, no longer to be imprisoned behind the bars of wintry angst and drink.


End file.
